


Infected

by genop0ke



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Eddsworld AU, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genop0ke/pseuds/genop0ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is a messed up eddsworld au shame on me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infected

It all began with a burning agony, blooming out from the Norwegian man’s side. A bloody harpoon bursting through flesh, missing any vitals but bursting many a blood vessel and muscle. It would surely take weeks, perhaps even months to fully remedy itself. Blood from that damned alcoholic Brit happened to be splashed about on the head of the harpoon. 

What a shame that he had to find out that monstrous DNA from ages ago still remained in that blood, and that it doesn’t particularly like human DNA, the hard way. 

His mind flashes back to a time a handful of years ago. Tord had whisked the man away while catching him on the curb of a road, too intoxicated to question why a man he hadn’t seen in years now requested to drive him home. Of course, he complied, his mind too blurred by various liquors to be suspicious. He got him comfortable, helped him through the heavier parts of heavy drunkenness, even tried not to mind a few spots of bile splattering onto his shoes if dear Thomas couldn’t make it to something to throw up into. After all of that subsided, what he really came for began. 

A cloth was tied over the man’s ‘eyes’, a rag soaked with chloroform pressed to his face until consciousness slipped away. Tord shuffled around to jog his memory and probed behind a couple framed photographs on the walls before pulling a lever, revealing a lab-like secret room. He closed up the wall behind him and grabbed a couple vials from a small case. 

“…there we go. Shame I have to test this on an old friend, eh?” He mused to himself, emptying the small vial into a syringe and plunging the needle into one of Tom’s veins. He writhed around in unconscious agony for a few moments, and surprisingly… nothing really happened.

Of course, something DID happen a few months later during an incident involving superpowers, but that’s not important.

What’s important is that the results of that haphazardly test is now mixing with Tord’s own blood thanks to a contaminated harpoon destroying one of his prized creations. A large robot which caused a chaotic, horrendous power trip and at least one death. 

He braces for impact when an explosion ruptures within the core of the vessel, sending him sailing to the ground, far away. Thank god his most trusted allies, Paul Vore and Patryk Dupske, were already coming in his car to grab him. They were originally planning on trying to safely deactivate the machine and pacify him, but now they have to help him recover from a traumatic explosion and serious burns. 

After wrapping his wounds for going back to base, he gets in the car and forlornly stares out the window as they drive off, down at the three figures silhouetted against a sinking sun. 

He misses them already. He regrets everything already. 

* * *

The day after, Tord feels pretty good. Even his right arm feels as if it miraculously and rapidly recovered in merely one good night’s rest. He gets dressed, goes to wash his face and mess about with his hair… and screams upon looking in his reflection. Panic overcomes him for a good few moments. He feels great, but definitely doesn’t look good at all. Where burns once were, a sleek sheath of black covers the skin and a bit past where the injuries were. It’s frightening, to say the most. Half of his face is now ink black, with the iris in his right eye faded to a pale, almost white color, leaving the pupil eerily standing out.

Even some of his teeth on the right side feel sharper. The previously burnt ear of his comes to a subtle point. He takes off his shirt, taking a better look at whatever the hell had happened to him. Black covers all of his arm, and half of his face, creeping down his neck and meeting the ebony of one limb on a section of his chest, centered at his heart. The ends of the digits of his right hand almost seem sharp, like claws.

What the hell is going on? 

Trying to stifle the mass of anxiety building in his gut, he pulls his shirt back over himself and grabs some loose gauze lying around - apparently he had pulled all of it off in his sleep - to wrap around part of his face. At least he can attempt to hide the worst of it.

“...ehm… Paul..? Patryk? Could one of you fetch a medic for me?” Tord shouts, leaning a bit out of his room. His tone of voice wavers, tinged with faint hints of panic. He shakily moves back to his bedside, looking around for some gloves. 

Perhaps his wounds are just severely infected?

But then he remembers. Tom’s blood from that harpoon. Is this why this is happening? 

“Red Leader, sir, you requested me?” The sudden voice gives him a start, causing him to scramble to his feet and frantically pull gloves over his hands. He looks over his shoulder, spotting a young woman in uniform, a white band with a red cross wrapped over one of her upper arms. Her hand is stuck in the air, at level with her head, put into a fist with two parted fingers stuck up. 

A wave of relief washes over him. One of their best medics was available today. Thank God. “Nurse Nadere, correct? I was wondering if you could possibly recommend some treatments for widespread infection. I’m a bit concerned about my burns, you see.” 

“...widespread? That could get deadly. May I have permission to look over your injuries, my leader?” 

These aren’t normal-looking one bit. But he hesitantly agrees to her request, pulling his shirt back off and removing the gloves and bandages. Her face goes white, a hand over her mouth. “...is it really that bad?” His question implies he doesn’t realize how bad it looks. He does. 

“It… I-I’ve never seen anything like this, my leader, sir. Are you sure this is… natural? It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for something… I-I don’t know, sir. My apologies.” With a heavy sigh, Tord nods and lets her out of the room. He sits back on his bad and lays back, looking at his hands. 

* * *

On the second day of this… infection, he still is filled with dread upon looking over his reflection. It’s spreaded even more, covering more of his torso and spreading to his back, taking over half of his face. Subtle, small masses seem to be forming on his shoulders, elbows, and back, like small spines or something.

It’s going to be much more difficult to hide this, now. Still, only the nurse knows of his condition. 

He takes the gauze, trying his best to cover up the infected, blackened skin. It leaves a bit of darkness near his mouth and nose exposed, but it’s not distracting. Tord gets dressed up in his uniform and pulls gloves over his hands. Might as well stop taking sick days. He’s only taken one, so far, which would be the day before, but one is already too many. He has a job to do. 

“Red Leader, sir, where were you yesterday?” Someone asks upon spotting him out of his room. Ah, Paul, one of his pilots. A good pilot, despite once immensely peeving him by crashing a plane. That wasn’t entirely his fault, though. They were all deprived immensely of sleep from obsessively doing missions in preparation for other things, and that so-called “cloudberg” was a hallucination. Finding that nobody but him and the pilot are currently about in the halls, he gives a friendly nudge to a hand doing the salute. 

“Hey, hey, at ease. Nobody else is around, we can be casual. I took a sick day. The burns were… very, very painful, yesterday.” A complete lie, but a convincing one. “I might have to take another tomorrow if these don’t improve. They hurt. A lot.” 

“I see. Has the nurse helped at all?” Paul raises his thick eyebrows some, tilting his head a bit. 

Ah. The nurse. A hint of dread returns, balled in his throat. She hasn’t spread any rumors, hopefully. Or else there will be problems. He might even have to shoot someone. “…yes, she, she helped. A lot. Gave a lot of, eh, aloe, for the burns.” How nervous and mildly panicked he sounds is reflected in his mannerisms and tone. He fidgets and tries to push an anxious smile onto his face. 

The pilot squints. “You don’t usually act like this. Are you hiding something?” 

“No, no, not at all!” He can feel the infection tingling, almost.  

His hand twitches. The infected one. Some scary intrusive thoughts push into his head, causing him to get even more on edge. Paul huffs. “...sure, and I’m the queen of England.”

“I actually met the queen, once. Had eyebrows like yours.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course not, Paul.” 

All at once, his vision shifts a bit, his balance faltering. His vision flickers to black for a moment, and he comes back to with blood on his hands. 

“…what just…” Paul is scrambling away from him, hands on his terrified face. Blood seeps from a wound covered by his hands, where Paul lost his eye before. “S-sir, what-- what are you doing..?” 

Tord slowly steps away, looking from Paul’s face to his bloodied hands. When did he take off his gloves? He feels a bit of torn skin caked between the sharp nails on his right hand. “No, no… I… this isn’t like me, what’s happening..?” He turns around and flees, sprinting back into his quarters and slamming the door behind himself. His hands tangle in his hair, his legs giving out with how horrified he is at himself.

The Red Leader gets back into bed, attempting to sleep off this nightmare. 

Of course, it doesn’t work.

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s… some amount of time later. His body is wracked with pain, focusing in his joints and back. He tries getting up, groaning. Upon getting a glance at his reflection, he has a surprisingly apathetic reaction to it. His entire body is sheathed in eerie black, spiky tufts coming off of his shoulders, elbows, back, et cetera. All of them are pretty sharp. A tail ending in a jagged point sways behind him.

How long was he asleep for all of this to happen to him?

He goes over to his door, pulling it open. But it’s sealed. What, did they try “quarantining” him or something? They need their leader. 

They’re hopeless without him.

He claws at the door, kicking at it until it opens. “…why would they want me locked up in my room? Rude of them.” His voice sounds more like a hiss.  

* * *

Patryk holds his gun close, looking around nervously. Something is lurking in the base. He hears something stir, turning around and gasping a bit. Nothing is there. There’s a faint scraping noise down the hall. Trembling, he points his weapon at the source of the noise.

“...who’s there?”

All he gets for a response is an inhuman, bestial snarl. 

Something lunges out from the dark. All he sees is a dark, somehow familiar blur before everything goes dark. 

_ “......Tord?” _


End file.
